The Era
by apollonialust
Summary: What is the pleasure principle, do we all have a special need to feel that we belong, does love and lust divide. What about through centuries and decades? Olivia and Fitz find each other through pleasure and principle. (One-shots)
1. The Unfaithful Housewife

Authors Note: I've been very much a recluse lately in every spectrum of my life. I have committed myself to reestablishing my prowess as a writer. It helps with sanity. I've missed words does that make sense. I've missed storytelling and dialogue. I can't promise prompt updating, but I can promise some form of curiosity for what stories can do. This is basically me uploading my previous stories from the series "The Era." I do think the delicious Scandal promo helped with my defunct writer's block. I had ideas but not the motivation. I know I can be unpredictable and I have the overt tendencies to delete stories with no regard or remorse to those that enjoy them. I've been a bad girl, please forgive me. Enjoy, formerly known as apollonianlust.

The Unfaithful Housewife

She was going to end it she had professed to herself. It was almost like a prayer a sinful chant that needed to be reiterated every five minutes, but what she couldn't comprehend was the sheer unhinged disregard for her marriage vows she had stabbed into oblivion. The word _slut_ sat at the tip of her tongue waiting to curl it's fangs into her psyche. Olivia Pope was definitely a saint.

She with skilled careful fingers had twirled the perfect dapple of frosting on dozens of cupcakes for her daughter's class bake sale, she had championed a fundraiser for the girl's soccer team and she even played hostesses serving cucumber salads to the wives of her Mulberry-esque neighborhood. The doting mother she portrayed, but inside she was caged with wanton need. A lack of orgasms had been the cusp of this torrid affair. But it was more to it than that, to pine it as a simple tawdry dalliance would cheapened the devastating emotions that dripped from her heart. She had fallen in love for the first time and it frighten every vein in her body. Every touch he gave her was an indelible smudge to her marriage.

In the beginning he had been sweet, her lover. It was the blistering kisses that lingered, that made her weep into her pillow each time her husband tried to touch her. Edison's touch although familiar now made her wince with an undeniable prejudice. He was her husband and she couldn't stomach his clumsy fingertips and awkward thrust. Sex had never been great between the two but she had managed to find her own pleasure in the quiet stellar of their closet. It was in those needy minutes with her buzzing vibrator in her hand that she felt such shame. She had become the cliché, the lonely housewife who masturbates alongside her envious row of spectacular heels, espadrilles, loafers, ballet flats and sandals.

She shied away from mirrors, mirrors taunted her shared her lustful ridden secret with an ambivalent gaze. The laser like gleam of her wedding ring startled her each time so she had decided that mirrors were out to get her. Yet she stood before the mirror today in a sheer wine colored bow neck blouse and wheat A- line skirt that swayed just below her mid thigh. Lace gathers at the soft peak of her breast and she wonders who is she wearing this for? Definitely not her husband. The sleeves billow out at the elbow and taper at the wrist. Pleats curved her ribcage and accentuate the lush flesh of her body.

A nervous finger runs through her hair that's curled at the end she's bundled it into a slick ponytail leaving a sultry swoop to cover her eye. She decides makeup is too much of a hassle so she paints her lip in a dangerous shade of red. A shimmering burgundy that makes her look like a woman plotting revenge instead of an escape. Does she know what she's doing? Red is for whores and prostitutes.

There is no guilt just conviction.

There was her daughter Isadora curious and shy. Her wondrous pout and engaging eyes made Olivia simply putty in her five year old hands. She couldn't resist her sticky kisses and endless chatter about Princess Tiana, Frozen and trips to the library. What would her daughter think of her?

And then her husband Edison whose paternalism was endearing the first year of their marriage but now achingly stifling. The condescension that cakes his voice and the obvious eye rolls he's patented specifically for her whenever she opined a thought. How could she have ever thought this was love? It was comfort surely and her parents adored him because he could be affectively charming, but underneath the tailored suits was a man she hardly knew or maybe she knew exactly who he was but just casted a blind eye.

There was something wrong with her marriage she could willfully admit, but what was this persistence to salvage her marriage. Edison lying chaste kisses on her temple each morning before whistling out of their door way and into a world she hardly ever ventured out of. His world of advertisement called him to be powerful in a world that could render him powerless just by the shade of his dark brown skin. She bathing and clothing Isadora with a mother's gentle touch before shuttling her off to school. Grabbing groceries from Target getting Edison's suits from the cleaners she had thought life offered more. It was the routine that tired her, her stunted dreams that seemed to taunt her each time a college friend of hers squealed with delight at making partner, getting a promotion or opening their own firm. She could boast about her being president of the P.T.A or the lengths she went to ensure that Isadora got into the best school, but what did it mean if every waking breath felt like a slow death.

Her B.F.A in Interior Design lay in a box in the dusty space of their attic.

It seemed they had perfected a performance of a normal suburban couple.

If Edison was powerless she was boxed in, tightly shut and sealed.

/

As soon as the passengers descend from the train platform she glances around meekly her bottom lip pulled between her teeth. She notices a mother kissing her daughter's wrist as the little girl quietly cried into the mother's bosom, Olivia's heart ripped literally lifted for the seam. A staggered old man whistled a whimsy tune each shaky step a breath of fresh air. Teenagers idly looking for caution mischief. She's peers out into the buzzing traffic of the throngs of passengers and she sees him. Her heart beats a simple chant of love. It's a feeling she had never had before. The typical butterflies scraped her ribcage making her a nervous wreck. She couldn't possibly do this today.

Olivia stops timid and exhilarated, hundreds flow past and yet she can't possibly move because this incredibly gentle man has her heart staked in his palm. What a terrible way to feel. The absolute weight of your heart not owned by your husband, but a lover with soulful blue eyes.

She needs him. It suddenly grips her.

Olivia tries shooing the epic wave of colossal emotion aside, she wants to think of her daughter rocking her little body to sleep, with selfish intent she needs to allow herself to be the woman she's afraid of.

The woman who would fall in love simply because love had chosen her. She didn't ask for love it sank its fluttering fangs in her heart and tugged. What Olivia had been desperate for was a good fuck. A rippling of orgasms that left her fatigued for a week, love wounds on her neck, she wanted to be spanked bent over and fucked mercilessly.

Her poor husband.

Fuck her husband.

Fuck him for not fucking her right.

Fuck him for not knowing how to love her.

Another train whizzes by and she's struck by the beauty of him.

A calm smile paints his face a flash of his roving fingers seeking out her perk breast comes through her mind. She crosses her legs before her, a hint of feverish blush tinting her cheeks. How could she be aroused at the sight of him? She immediately chastises herself at the erotic picture she has tainted in her thoughts. She is not this person, but she can't help but smile at the rugged curl of his hair and the slight scruff that marks his face. He's adorable in this menacing way. He could whisper a sonnet full of love in her ear and then dip his two wonderful fingers deep inside her with his right hand delicately around her neck and not bat a possible eyelash.

She takes timid steps to meet him in the midst of the ongoing traffic. Her eyes wander above him and she can't look into his stony blue eyes that seems to frighten an enchant her.

Her stomach rolls as he approaches shifting on the balls of her feet she pinches her fingertips into her palms. She will explode if he doesn't touch her soon.

Crisp footsteps meet hers and she's standing before him anxious as ever. She needs to find something to do with her hands she decides to lay them at her sides, but that makes her feel plain. So she stuffs them in her brown trench coat pocket she imagines she looks like a rag doll thrown aimlessly through the air. Looking up his eyes seemed to sear her flesh.

A lopsided grin is what he offers.

"Hi."

"Hi." She says in a broken whisper a sheen of tears threatening to fall from her eyes. She seems to focus on the neckline of his indigo t-shirt. This could all go wrong. A patronized husband with a revolver and brain matter splattered everywhere, and she would be the culprit. The whoring wife who couldn't keep her legs cost. The risk is worthy.

He studies her a light touch of his thumb to her cheek and she shivers.

And he touches her like she's porcelain because she is. Today she doesn't feel like scum.

"What's wrong Livvie?" He smiles ruefully tugging her by her waist with a patient delicacy.

She can't look at him. Her voice crumbles under the plight of her conviction "I knew exactly what I was going to say the moment I saw you, but you're here Fitz and God I can't think straight."

She pushes him away a little but never fully leaving his embrace. Raising her head to peer up at him she knows that all pretense is null in void. What's this thing that has captured her heart? Why can't she just end it and run away? The impossible truth is Olivia would like to be devoured by love. To have her heart gobbled in a pit of flames by her lover's eyes, she's bashful of these thoughts, because to her these are not thoughts of a thirty year old woman, but a hopeless thirteen year old girl scribbling her crushes name in her diary.

"I missed you." She whispers softly to the ridge of his ear. Suddenly the urge to cry threatens to spill forth; she bites down on her lip harder.

His hands frame her face and he's looking at her like she's the only woman in the world. She turns away simply frenzied at his unrelenting gaze. She shuts her eyes tight as he lifts her off her feet and hugs are closely to his body.

"It's been a week Livvie. I'm disappointed in you." His tongue traces the pucker of her lip.

"I'm sorry."

"Let me take you home lover."

/

The wind bit into them as they casually walked hand in hand out of the train station and into the combusted street. She leaned into him thinking how good it felt to walk the fragile concrete with her lover's hand in hers. _Her lover_. This sweet tender man had taken her heart and ran away with it. She let him without a second thought. It was very easy to fall in love with him; the falling in love part didn't keep her up at night surprisingly. It was the wanting. The slow ache for him when she was home helping Isadora with her homework and looking at her husband's empty chair at their kitchen table.

She couldn't recall the moment she knew she fallen in love it could have been when they drunkenly performed _She's Like The Wind_ at a local tavern a reckless thing she had done of course, or was it when they went to a French restaurant for a early lunch and he fingered her at the table and she cried out with her face buried in his neck. He had kissed her sweaty brow and told her he loved her. Maybe it was when he ate her out so selfishly at the cinema theater a boneless heap of nerve tingles is how she could describe her body after he was done with her.

He loved her on purpose.

/

He takes her back to his loft Otis Redding is blaring and she can't help but want to wrap her arms around him and collapse into the strength of his body. He whisks her into the bedroom that is dark with only a peek of sunlight slipping through the crack of the mahogany drapes.

Linen bed sheets are toss on the floor and only the fitted sheet remains. They are having a picnic in his bedroom. Pepperoni pizza and white wine. She doesn't turn up her nose at the feast she instead takes a pepperoni into her mouth and smiles faintly.

"What am I doing Fitz?"

"We are eating pizza and drinking wine. I'd say we're having a party."

She smacks her teeth folding her arms before her. "I am someone's wife."

"I'm sorry I didn't pick upon that small hindrance before."

"Don't be smart."

"Livvie we've had this conversation before. I'm aware your married it doesn't bother me, but it bothers you. I love you more than I should and damn it I just can't get enough of you."

"I'm going out of mind Fitz. It's funny I see myself as this woman that has it all under control and then there's you simply fucking my entire life out of focus and I'm left wondering who I was before this and the scary thing is I'm not sure I ever want to go back."

"You don't have to go back."

"This is absolute madness."

"Livvie you aren't the devil for falling in love with me and you're not a terrible person for cheating on your husband."

"What I am then Fitz."  
"You're a lot of things but coward isn't one of them."

"Fitz be quiet."  
Abruptly he stands rushing to his closet. She watches him amused but slightly apprehensive at his sudden surge of energy. Turning back out of the closet he has two ties in his hand.

Her stomach clenches. His jaw tightens and he comes to her wrapping the ties around his neck.

"Tell me you trust me."

She nods slowly. "I trust you."

Fitz raises an eyebrow. A swaggering arrogance consumes his strides he takes her hips in his hand pulling her entire body flush to his. She whimpers like it's her last breath.

"I don't want to hear you utter another syllable about your pathetic fucking marriage."  
She blanches mouth opening mid vowel, but she silences the words before they come to her throat. He was absolutely right. Her marriage was pathetic.

And she missed the salty taste of his cum.

/

The darkness greets her she's blindfolded. Her wrist are tied bound behind her. He pins her against the wall the tip of her breast kissing the paint.

She doesn't expect the roughness. He's never been rough with her. Always so sweetly even in his strokes, but today a Fitz is man that cannot contain his frustration. She understand it.

He smacks her bottom hard her legs twist and her toe curls before tipping into a arch. The blend of pain draws her to erotic insanity.

Chest heaving she slams her shoulder blade against the wall he's kneeling in front of her his hands roaming her ample hips biting her flesh. He will leave marks, because he's desperate. She will let him because she does not care anymore.

"Say it." He says in voice that would frighten Satan. taking a fistful of her hair in his hand he pulls a little not enough to hurt. He doesn't want to hurt her. Her knees scratch the wall. She doesn't speak she would like to tease him. It's a game.

A hard smack reaches her left butt cheek and a harsh moan leaves out her mouth. Pulling her backward by her hair his tongue runs along the side of her mouth.

"Say it Livvie." He presses the length of his body against her his erection poking her backside.

"It's yours."


	2. Ballerina

_A/N: I think I should have expressed this will be a series of one-shots if your familiar with "The Era", then basically I'll be reposting stories from that series. I'm slowly editing everything, while also trying to create new stories and update the other stories I've started. I'm such a lazy pants, but stories are always floating here and there. I'm starting a new one-shot were the basic premise is a road trip of Olivia, Fitz and her parents. Fun times! I hope you enjoy reading this for the first time, or for a second time._

 _Ballerina_

 _The bleach burns pricks her skin like the stabbing betrayal of a thousand butter knives. The smudge prevails never once wailing at her desperate amateur pursuit to be something other than herself. Bleach won't cover her skin, because it's impossible she's all crushing tints of blackness with puffy coils of cloudy pigtails and thick lips that quiver when her heart is beaten into submission. She just wants to not have to be twice as good._

 _So she cups the Clorox in her trembling fingertips and shivered when the clear acid met all brown flesh. She didn't scream just bit her lip until a coppery liquid flooded her mouth._

 _Today a pale girl with ginger hair and worn freckles called her a monkey another wound opened up and she plunged inside hopelessly. Like tiny fragments of herself beckoned the falling apart, froth at the mouth at her ambiguous indifference at her shade. She had to be twice as good to be human, but what about the other stuff._

/

Connecticut 1996

Her body bows at the banal guitar riff of _Ballerina_. She always did like Van Morrison at least he wasn't pretentious like Bob Dylan. The folk harmony underneath soul sensibility had always been peculiar to others when they watched her body sway with a delicate scrutiny. Preferring the jarring rattled squeal of Van Morrison's upturned smoky rasp she seemed to need his music to dip into a staggered pirouette. She battled her limbs to rivet into a single shape. Legs twisted into impossible limbo, but her body didn't flinch. It had succumbed to the ever bending wave of her torso. She closed her eyes following the rhythm, she saw her mother's face curls whipping across her cheek on the Twirl-A-Wheel, the last time she had even seen her smile before everything turn to eclipsing midnight. She banishes the thought before spinning up on her heel and like a divine water stream on a sweltering summer night she beams into air her toes pointedly arched and she ripples down to her heel, arms planted in front of her gracefully.

She doesn't hear the applause the beat of _Ballerina_ just stutters on in her mind. For a ticking time she opens her eyes and sees' the sea of pleasantly hysteric faces up on their feet, arms flapping in praise.

Her father is standing too nearly bouncing with pride. Perhaps today she is good enough, if only for today.

/

She shakes her hair out of the tight bun, tickling her scalp with her fingertips. Her hair comes down limply in a roar of chocolate hued ringlets. She fingers the strands tugging on the ends like a roving toddler looking for amusement. It was always her hair that brought forth attention. The pestering curiosity her classmate had at her tresses bothered her. The abysmal questions, "How does it get like that?" "Is it soft?" "Oh my God it must be so hard dealing with your kind of hair. Right?" and the most offending "Can I touch it?"

Her hair had never been her glory but she wore it like a badge of difference. _I am other because you make me this way._

She'd stumble with the giggles at their puzzled faces when she came to school with it bone straight tapping her shoulders. Then the next day it was surrounding her face in a cottony halo, of course Eli berated her for costing him a fortune on the hair appointment only for her to douse her hair in water completely ruining the style. She didn't care it was her way of dealing with the absurdity that she couldn't possibly straighten her hair in the exact way that they do. They, meaning her clueless but often times well meaning class mates.

The wave of chatter isn't inviting backstage. Prim svelte figure girls with china doll buns tousled on top of their head, giggling with frightened amusement. Some pointe their toes and others just stare out into space guided by the torture of being alone. All of them so thin with muscle, pink leotards painted to their skin. Hip bones jutted out and cheeks pale from early morning vomiting. She needed an apple something to chew on before she screamed. She hadn't touched popcorn in a week after she read in Glamour magazine that it causes her stomach to bloat, along with wine. Damn, her for being a ballerina. She forgot what food tasted like because her body was all adagio, sautés, and Arabesque. Some of the girls forgot to eat on purpose, she would here the retching in the bathroom stalls and turn on her heel, so predictable and yet sad. She stayed clear of their pointer fingers, coated with last night spaghetti, or the morning's bland oatmeal. She could never be so courageous and hungry too. She ate because her body wouldn't forgive her for the betrayal. / She swallows the lasagna thick and meaty down her throat. It doesn't have enough oregano. Just a tad too much Ragu sauce. It will sit in her belly like balled up fist. Her eyes lift watching her father dab his chin red pasta sauce on him like a wound. She had seen him smile today.

"Dad." She says. For once she doesn't grimace when the words tickle out her voice. It's not an endearment, just words forced out her mouth.

"I appreciate you coming to the recital. It meant a lot." She almost smiles. Almost.

"Your mother would have been proud. You were beautiful out there."

She doesn't breathe or maybe she had never gotten her breath back when her mother died. She's just been floating with shriveled lungs.

"Thank you."

He says nothing else simply giving her a polite smile that shines with hundred year old tears.

/

Susannah Grant is Olivia's best friend. The quixotic brunette powered the halls of Miss Porter's School. Floating down bubblegum popped, Burberry perfume scented hallways, ears rumbling with the chatting whispers of the student body of Miss Porter's School. Envious vamps nicknamed the duo the Trouble Twosome. They would sweep into a quieted classroom all plaid skirts hiked to their waist and knee highs dangerously laced and begin a throttle of academic domination. Teachers bristled at their knack of sprouting out undiscovered facts that most students left in the dust of their textbooks. Susannah brash with her knowledge Olivia clever and demure allowed people to unexpect anything but brilliance from her tongue, but then she would strike like any serpent full of venom. Poisonous with ever drip of her words. Susannah was president of Student Council and Fitzgerald "The Legend' Grant baby sister.

The rumor was that Fitzgerald Grant had conquered at least a hundred girls while he attended the neighboring Hotchkiss School. His sexual appetite exaggerated with each tale. The Chinese piano prodigy who he bedded after she rousingly played Bach for him in a negligee. A Brazilian wanderer who was deflowered by "The Legend" in a bathroom stall during the Sadie Hawkins dance. An Afro- Cuban sophomore who dressed like a mod sixties impersonator, sucked him dry in a dank stairwell above the chorus room. The web of breast, pussy and wing tipped eyelashes reached countries. His penis imperialistic, colonizing and privileged.

None of it was true, fabrication of idle minds, seeking out the handsome heart or cock, depending on the girl of Fitzgerald Grant. What was certain is he had briefly dated Mellie Geseck. An icky but calculating debutante. The coupling didn't last a week before her shrill voice sent Fitz into a tunnel of madness.

Then he had found a girl after autumn lifted scorching reins of summer from amber trunked trees, washed Connecticut in a rustic red melee of leaves. She was beautiful, perfected shades of gold, sienna, and sepia all painted on one body. To love her would be his greatest fortune.

He had seen her first in a lavender leotard almost floating in his backyard. Petite limbs swinging in delicate precision lifting her body up to the sky and down to the wonderful ground. Bewildered college freshmen he had been after only a few weeks at the United States Naval Academy he had gotten a break from the military pageantry and devotion and he flew home to a divine beauty.

Beneath the poised crinkle of her lip was an ash of melancholy that Fitz sank his teeth in. He knew that look and so slowly they fell in love underneath the ambivalent eye of everyone around them. A bruising kind of love that no one was privy to, but the lovebirds themselves.

They weren't ashamed of course, but love this pure was only sacred, so miles of letters and a trail of phone calls and invisible visits the two seemed to be falling apart in love. Stitching hearts veins back together so they could live.

Somehow they survived the dark cellar nights in the purgatory of their schools of choice. The liberal pro woman dormitories of Miss Porter's School that boasted future feminist of a patriarchal male dominated world, they would conquer in high heeled pumps or Birkenstocks. And Fitz secluded in the rigid margins of stoic patriotism and hyper masculinity.

Love found a way, well then it always does.

/

His tongue wiggled over her clit, such lazy lapping licks.

Olivia knuckles bent, near white strangling the seat belt clutched in her grasp. Feet curling in a bunch on the dashboard. Reckless lust had awakened a stammering arousal that saw no end. He took his time with her sensitive tip nibbling and wooing all her delicate parts.

"Slow,baby,slow." She tells him. Her head spinning between an upheaval and a well. Nas Illmatic is whispering out the speakers. The chipped tooth rapper spitting gritty tales of capitalistic pursuit in the underbelly of America. She likes making love, fucking to rap music. Something so strange about the bombastic beats breathing poetry out as her body curled with an orgasm.

Her legs spread on the heap of his shoulders. The leather seat stuck to her sweaty bottom. His fingers digging into her hip ,smacking her fleshy thigh with his calloused hand. She yelped and bucked her face closer to his eager tongue.

"Fitz." She whispered so sweet. Her heart soaring out pumps of love. He wouldn't stop and she was careless with want for him, fierce lust jump roping her veins.

Feathery twirls of his tongue, the pink tip touches her so deeply and strokes into a shattering bliss and she's falling down into ribbons of jerking shivers.

Soft he is with her body all pleasured tingles that blow , her fingertips scratching his scalp, legs clapping down on his neck. Her limbs a crashing freight train.

"My God, My God. My God." She hisses unable to bite down on her lips any longer.

It always happened this way. The shock of her orgasm taking her like a bandit, seeking out a prized jewel. It didn't belong to her, as if her body had been snatched and put under a spell she had no choice to succumb to. Before she stopped twitching he mustered a few more teasing licks that made her whimper and arch her body upward. He could make her come again, but his eyes whistle over her body, she was loose with heat and her hair messy all over face. It would be tangled webbing torture to bring her body to the brink once again. Instead he lets his head rest on her flat tummy. Caring fingers pulls her skirt back down to her thighs. Kissing then biting the soft spot under her ribs. She jerks almost winced but her body lay still once again. Beneath the cave of those ribs are frantic heartbeats that he owns so flippantly. She hadn't been in a rush to give them to anyone. But with each breath he swoops in.

She starts to think that he's uncomfortable with his body crouched on the floor of the Jeep. Arching up she reaches for a button beneath the seat letting the seat further back.

" I love you so much." She tells him. She doesn't say it often. Not because it isn't true, but the words make her feel like she's gargling with sharp edged rocks.

" Your only saying that because I made you come." A joke, but was it really. He knew her, but sometimes. The cloaked shield she used to keep everyone at bay would rear its head.  
Rolling her eyes upwards, she says. "Shut up. You always make me come, but I love you Fitz. I really do."

He kisses her belly button.

"Say it again."

" I love you." She doesn't have a description for it. No love poems could decipher the comets rocketing them to each other. She stopped listening to love songs to find herself in them. They were all the same saccharine melodies, but never really love. The way she felt, was like the moon's shadow over the earth. The occurrence of raindrops kissing the hot crackled concrete. Hers lips can't find words to utter. Stripped down the voice and only a rasp is left. What other words are ever needed. I love you will do.

"I'm in love with you too dear sweet Olivia Pope." Laughter rolling out his skin, making his shoulders puff up and down.

She laughs with him, softly.

/

Steel chunks of balled planes center the grassy scape of land. Her hands tightens around Fitz. He's since gone quiet after they left the parking lot of her school. Her head bobs softly on his shoulder with every step he takes fingers touching the strap of the bulky Nikon camera around his neck.

"You ever heard of a pilot jet graveyard, Livvie?" He asks not looking at her only peering at the jungle maze of discarded planes. Some with charred wings others crooked from a drowning flight.

Her eyes fall to the slope of his nose. "Is that what this is? This is eerie Fitz. "

He stops himself from laughing at her innocent fright. " Trust me those ghost are long gone."

The night is blooming and a chill prickles her skin sending tiny goose bumps all over her arm. Just a faint shiver ripples down her spine. She's not one to be afraid of things that go bump in the night, but the mystery is haunting.

They walk past the rubble, silence their friend. She's tossed in her thoughts about her senior recital next month. Her spins have not caught enough flight lately. A cabriole here and then afouetté the movements mimicked in her DNA. Ballet was a destiny that mocked bodies, but asked the body to betray it's restraints. Olivia did so willing.

She's got the idea in her head to choreograph a dance to Bonita Applebum, it's totally bizarre, but then that would be the beauty of it. A balançoire to the lazy drumming and pop of the Rotary Connection sampled tune.

The new A Tribe Called Quest cd came out today, she will pick it up. Q-Tip is so handsome, but Phife is the real lyrical assassin. Clever and cherub with his winded verses. Discovering the group on a lazy Saturday flipping the television stopping on YO MTV Raps. African garb and vintage embellishment adorn their bodies, geometrical shaped haircuts zig zagging on their coiled head, and she dug the sensuality of their rhymes, not to harsh and not to preachy. She wasn't met with a barrage of insults to women when her cd player whirled their masterpieces, just jazz affected brilliance.

Fitz preferred The Beasties Boys.

She lifts her head to her lover, the only man she's ever loved and studies the pensive lines edging over his face. He's deep in thought. His toes tapping on another galaxy. Her lips touch the heart of his jaw.

"Where are we going?"

"I'm looking for a place for us to settle." He tells her squeezing the fingers interlocked with his.

The smile on his face is playful. She blushes a little then lets her eyes fall to the mystic coliseum of wreckage. There is no beauty to . A civil war with no victory. The jets crunched into unforgivable shape.

He takes them up a path that's lined with jagged stones and chipped aluminum. Her feet catches under a rock and she almost falls, but Fitz holds her steady. Train tracks greet them and they cross over them and into a hilly mound far up the plains.

Trees bend ,leaves falling at their feet, the blades of grass cover their shoes. Olivia bit her lips and held her breath too eager to get to their destination.

More planes lay sparse into silence, she wonders if the screams of those fearing men still echo in the hollowed sternum.

"We are here." Fitz says abruptly. Nostalgia perking at the corner of his lips.

Fitz peels off his jacket placing it on the ground his eyes dancing in some childish wonder he gestures for Olivia to take a seat. She plops down, happy to finally have a moment to rest.

Fitz takes a seat behind her, her body pressed between his knees. She has a soft spot right behind her ear. It's sensitive when he kisses it and it makes her squirm on his lap.

The leaves crunch under the weight of their bodies, but there is nothing, but boundless earth and forgotten planes. Well one dear boy hasn't forgotten. Smitten by the tarnish of yesteryears wars. Battle scars of worn old men, shooting blanketed bullets like steel arrows. Wars are hardly ever fought in congruence. The war between Olivia and herself to battle the tumult of her remembering her mother's lipstick kisses and then picking the scabs of her father's silence. Fitz war far less brutal just lonesome and vengeful of his father's death grip on his ambitions. But today, there won't be any casualties.

Fitz's hand drifted to her shoulder, sliding the cotton button down to the edge, her naked shoulder touched by the wind. His lips panted such pretty kisses down her arm.

Olivia shut her eyes forgot she needed breaths to breathe. Sometimes he could make her feel like the dawning of heaven just opened up inside her. The miracle of his touch, blessed her calm flesh.

She turned sideways in his lap, the awkward angle made it hard for her to reach his lips, so she pecked his neck inside.

"Fitz, she lisps out like chalk is raining down her tonsils. "When you touch me like that. I can't breathe." Her expression cloudy with a vulnerability she hardly ever let's slither out, lower lip trembling, but chip by chip she let's herself be unbelievably naked. It scares her she's fearful of the love staring back at her in his grainy blue eyes. How could he love her? So broken down in herself.

Shaking hands cradle her face and she hopes he never let's go. Love is not only a closet that you step out of when the confines are to suffocating. Love just blooms.

He tilts his head toward hers, foreheads touching. "What am I going to do with all this love I have for you?" Is he asking her or himself?

"Drown me with it please." She says quietly. He wraps her in his arms, like an infant, because all she is is a girl who lost her mother, before she lusted after her first crush.

He smells like earth bitten trees and caramel candies, the protective weight of his arms rocking her in a bundle. Sometimes she needed to be held and she couldn't possibly circle her mouth open to evoke this pittance of words. She was haunted by pity. Pity for her terribly sad eyes. The spirit of her mother tangled around her heart. The weeping girl with the dead mother. How awfully shipwrecked she had to be in order to conquer womanhood alone.

Damn him for his fingertips. The infallible moon of his lips, pressing towards hers. It was hardly ever just a kiss. More like a pandemic. Spiraling out different regions of her body, clamping down her lungs so she wouldn't need oxygen. What's a girl need life for when her heart's been ripped from her chest?

Sunlight dims and darkness sneakily spills over the hanging trees and frolicking leaves kicked over by the wind and the chirping sounds of night break through. Whispers gather at the rustle of tumbling soil. No one can paint what lovers do in the midnight of their thoughts.

Olivia tugs Fitz's camera from his neck a mischievous smile charming her face. She toys with the numerous buttons, curious, but blind to Fitz intense stare.

"You love this camera more than you love me." She says, a question hitched in her throat. She squints her eye and places the camera to the peak of her eyelid. A click pitches and Fitz face is imprinted on the lens.

His brow rising, "You like to torture yourself with some wicked thoughts." He grips her thigh tightly. A million shivers cry down her back.  
Licking her lips she photographs him again. Catching him off guard with the noisy shutter of the camera. Mouth parting in a snarky retort, it flies off her tongue. "Answers the question. You son of a bitch." She's alluring seductive with the hint of skin peeking out her shirt. The jiggly wave of her breast careless as sin.

He bounces her on the weight of his thighs. Olivia's body a feather that is an unwavering tickle on the heat of his chest. His fingers rustle the fabric of her skirt, before the grasp of his hand cups her plumb butt cheek. The pad of his thumb pinching her with delicious pain.

The camera angles out her hands and she braces herself on his chest. Parted lips moan an "o" and she stretches her hips flush along his sturdy body.

Pretense has never been his strength. He loved a young woman whose wounds gaped open for scrutiny. Love pressed on his chest as her hips arched upward, his fingers leaving redden splotches on her bum. He hadn't meant to leave a mark.

She hisses, a scream a grunt scratches the surface. She fights the sullen lust that makes her impossibly hazy. What had become of her bawdy veneer?

She strikes him on the cheek, a wisp of a slap, and he smiles like any child on Christmas morning. The dainty curl of her hands wrap around his neck, the hint of violence, pulses the veins of his cock.

He smacks her bottom hard once and she whimpers, but it sounds like a song. He does it again and her heads fall into the crook of his neck. Two fingers slip inside her with a practiced ease, his thumbs patterning dominance on her clit.

Her fingers surrender to the blades of grass, as his fingertips hold her hostage. The tipping balance of submission that she fleetingly pecks with her impatience. Her feminine desire, so undiscovered before she explored the folds of her flesh. He cups the back of her neck pressing a kiss to the side of her face; her body grieves the loss of control. Shames her for giving into the brute strength of Fitz indulgence. No magic words are spoken just limbs working to unfurl.

It doesn't occur to either that this unsalvageable need is a death sentence. No other love can seep through. He knows what he wants and it is all so big. Something that could enslave them. Something that could boomerang into orbit and set aflame the universe. There is this kind of love that drags.

Her body trembles and her cunt swallows his thick fingers. Cunt such a vulgar pretty word. Her cunt such a vulgar pretty thing. Torn between craving and a sanctuary. She beckons the latter. Short and counted breaths earthquake out her mouth and she weeps a growled moan onto the skin of Fitz neck. He takes her breaking and falling.

The tug and pull of her hips rigid in a whining puzzle. She writhes like an orgasm has been sliced out her ribs. Heavy grind on his pelvis, moves slowly, an eternity.

He stains her with bruising kisses loved smeared at the corner of her mouth. The chaos has her unraveling, the blessing of a lover with a blissful agony. Her soft hair falls beside her eyes.

The twirl of his tongue licks the blush of her jaw he commits a tender rage pinching her cheek lightly with his teeth. He holds her waist tightly like they are journeying through the turbulent waves of the Atlantic Ocean. All they have is each other and that is enough.

"Your all mine." He soothed, stroking her brow, his lips against her temple.

/

Her breast jiggle in the lace cups of her bra. Fireflies light up with each wave of her arm. She moves her body like a sonnet. Steady sure, but brimming with patience. She moves her body because it tells her to. Not even the clicking of Fitz camera sways her out of the melody seeping seamless rhythm. Her legs pivot above her head and her toes arched down into the steel rust of the train track. She doesn't move she allows Fitz time to get the perfect image. Swinging her leg out the air, she twirls with a bend to her waist and runs with her heels into a leap that arches her body in an impressive split. Her hair splashed above, the click is heard and she's down again out the heavens and back towards the earth.

Fitz hands shook as he tried to capture every magnetic move her body contorted into hellish cataclysm. Who told her, her body was a sonnet. That she could brave the pinning suction of grief. She bursting at the seams, freeing up every limb that had been shackled. Fitz cant click fast enough, but she doesn't wait for his approval. She is all her own.

Wobbling on her ankle she stops bends at the waist to exhaust more breath to her body. Her eyes lift to Fitz. He stumbles closer not mindful of the dislocated branches decorating the dirt. He brings the camera inches to her smiling face. It paints a millions stars. He doesn't hesitate to clip the image. Stepping away she falls back in to a spiral of serenity.

Marvelous lithe limbs ripple like kites blowing kisses to the air. She was born of African drumbeats and Motown soul. Her hips hiccups, pining up and down like a sensual link of possession. Twisting and turning using her strength to begin on her half toe her right leg pulling her left leg in very small quick movement.

She picked up the vigor; parts of her moving faster than her body could keep up with, her toes leaving the ground every twenty seconds. It was flying that she liked. To be invincible, to almost reach stars.

The whooshing of an eruptive train paralyzed the silent night. Tugging it's tires along the track, but Olivia didn't give up.

"Livvie." Fitz nearly yells dropping the camera from his grasp. His body shaking with fear.

The jittering vibration of the train doesn't quell her staggered ciseaux, pas de. It's beautiful the way she lands and if Fitz wasn't pale with worry he would summon the camera to his splendid eye, his heart grips his chest when the train bum rushes out the trees and the glaring lights blare out into sight. He could fall apart today and death would not take him.

There was time when she had no voice when all she heard was static. Her mother took her to see Alvin Ailey it was her first time ever in New York. Those brown bodies practically beating the sorrows of their ancestors out with a swift arch of the foot. She sat with a gaping mouth and lemon drops tears glued to her face, her feet never stopped moving then and they wouldn't stop now.

Her chest puffing out millions of breaths, shuddering back into the loop of her arms, she rocked slowly in abandon. Her fears miles apart, she couldn't hear Fitz yelling or even the train spiraling towards her. She would be a ballerina with legs floating into place. The tears seem to taste her cheeks. She wasn't sad she was bravely happy.

He calls her name over and over, until he's hoarse. The tears swim at his eyelids. He was tiredly tormented watching her slowly ripping scattered pieces of herself everywhere with the sway of her hips. She could die, but yet the beauty of her movement left him in utter sadistic killjoy.

She lifted her leg high, arms raised above dangerously sinful, but before she could even leap out, her body was tackled to the hard soil.

The train rushes past, frightening her out her skin. She shields her face in the warmth of Fitz shadow. His body hot and wired with panic. She could probably feel his heart if she touched his chest.

Specks of dust float up from the plodding of the train.

The beauty of the moon lights up their skin. Cracking open the ambivalent darkness of the sky.

Her eyes open up and Fitz is staring at her with a bewildered brokenness. His fingers shiver with apprehension and love as he slowly cradles her face.

"I will kill myself and you if you ever do something like that to me again. Do you understand me Livvie?" He demands, weak.

"Ok." She stammers still reeling from the excitement of fear that curled her spine. What she had done was suicide. Her tears are deliberate as they creep down her face. She been hammered into pebbled rocks, swollen with jagged stones. If she picked herself back up she would fall again. She knows how the stars look when you think you're seeing them for the last time. The way they blend with the night so heavenly.

Their bodies untangle and Fitz lifts her from the ground dusting the dirt from her clothes. He swings her body into his arms as they make the silent trek back to his car.  
The jets lean cripple with the shadow of night glistening the figures. What was never spoken is that ghost do haunt those planes. The blinding screams of downward men seared in the flame of jet fluid. Their dreams planted in the grass. Their wives cries suffocating in the wings. No perhaps it is never well to make love in a makeshift graveyard.

/

Velma's Diner was bright with a yellowed light that made the place swarm with an affected atmosphere. Pale mint linen chandeliers swung from the ceiling like Christmas ornaments. The booths stuffed with cotton were periwinkle blue. Fitz loves this place. He's always raving about the lemon pound cake. She wasn't really in the mood for anything sweet. She had a taste for chili, something hearty to settle the hunger baiting her appetite.

A group of rowdy teenagers dine in a booth; the grimace of the waitress expresses her reluctance to express her distaste for their lack of decorum. They stare youthful eyes beating down the weary faces of Olivia and Fitz. She scratches her ankle with the toe of her shoe. She doesn't leave the shelter of Fitz arm.

They find a booth near the back, sitting snugly together on the comfortable seat. Cool and quiet the energy rumbles like a library.

"I love you." Fitz whispers to her at the edge of her eye.

"More than your camera."  
"More than my camera." He kisses her hair, before lifting the menus from the napkin canister. Lamented and sticky to the touch she eyes the dinner entrees. Nothing is remotely appealing, but the chicken noodles soup. She's in no mood for a beefy hamburger. She doesn't think her molars can handle the challenge. Her hands are still shaking jittery to the touch of the plastic covering on the table. Fitz takes those hands and cover them with his own.

The waitress comes. Her name is Daisy. She's all bubbly sass with purple streaks in her already cotton candy pink hair. There is nothing fancy in the way she takes their order. Fitz orders the clam chowder with root beer and a side of lemon pound cake. Olivia settles for the chicken noodle soup and vanilla coke. Daisy sweeps away with a restless smile on her face.

Coins are jingled into the antique jukebox that's centered at the front of the diner. The Red Hot Chili Peppers, Californication begins to play. The teenagers whoop in praise at the moody song.

"I like Nirvana better." Fitz says, scoffing. His fingers trailing over her wrist.

"Don't be an elitist. Remember you did buy a Vanilla Ice cd." She smirks, affectively rolling her eyes.

"Really Livvie your going to hold that against me. I told you it was an accident, and I'll admit the songs weren't that bad." He looks at her, all innocent, blue eyes childishly bright.  
She taps his nose with the end of her index finger. "What are you, what is either one of us, but people starving?"

"You smell like sex." He blurts out rather quietly, nuzzling her hair with his nose

She laughs just a little not enough to make her body move in shudders. "My dad is going to be pissed that I'm coming home so late."  
"Don't go home come with me. We can run away, travel the country with nothing but the clothes on our backs."  
" Your idealism would be charming if I thought you were serious."  
"Maybe I am and your just afraid. "

She propped her head on her elbow and looked at him. "I don't know much about life. I barely know all the things I want to know about myself."

"People disappear all the time." He deadpans, leaning forward and kissing her so soft she's not sure he kissed her at all.

She doesn't say anything listens to the music coming from the jukebox. Her eyes wander out the window beside her. A rickety Cadillac is parked sideways, and Fitz Jeep pretension with a clean sheen. Everything desolate. Here is an escape she thought, shrinking into the leather of the booth, exhausted. Fairytales not raining on her doorstep, but the here and now blaring with uncertainty. She's tugging at the edge of cliff of unbelievable hallowing sacrifice, her hair spread all over her face, she's at the cusp of adulthood rearing it's finicky head. This is now, but will she jump.

She turn back to Fitz, a pained smile dotting her pouty lips. "When I graduate in May we go to Paris. You take as many pictures as you like. I will be your Josephine Baker."

His eyebrows bunch at the corner of his eyes. The smile on his face unshakable.

"My muse, my sweet, the only light in my world." His voice was gentle, inspired, a lovers voice on a rainy morning.  
"I hate when your corny." She teases poking his arm.

He grabbed her to him, wrapping all her whimsical femininity around him, burying his face in her neck. Kissing her cheek and lips. Olivia felt a scathing in her chest as she staggered to strain her exasperation.

"Susannah is never going to forgive us." She speaks her words muffled by the bridge of his clavicle.

He shrugs his shoulder. "She will get over it. This isn't the Breakfast Club her life will not be in ruins if she loses her best friend and brother.

"Well when you put like that it sounds a lot more tragic, besides John Hughes made teen angst look like the Great Depression." Olivia says.

"We are not having this conversation. You get all worked up and I will never hear the end of it."  
Olivia lets out an amusing disappointed sigh. "I'm just saying the basket case had to change herself in order for the jock to fall in love with her. Talk about cliché."

Olivia loved the Breakfast underneath all the high school clichés was teen angst at its most basic insecurities. She had found herself in the shadows of all the characters. She was the princess, the brain, the jock, the basket case and the criminal. Well she had never done anything criminal beside stealing a tube of Chanel lipstick from Macy's when she thirteen. The thrill couldn't cover her reaching panic.

"It's just a movie Livvie."Fitz reasoned running his fingers through his curls. A few strands pop up on top of his head.

'The Breakfast club is not just a movie it's a fucking experience." Her voice had taken on a childish shriek that embarrassed her, and made Fitz cough with giggles.

The waitress saunters over with their order. The steaming bowls of soup make her stomach roll over in hunger. Bubbly spritz of soda soaked in chilled ice. She takes her napkin throwing it over her lap and digs in. Her spoon clacking along the glass bowl.

Brandy's _I Wanna Be Down_ plays on and Olivia can't help but bob her head along, taking spoonfuls of the diced chicken and noodles into her mouth.

"Here try some." Olivia slid her bowl towards Fitz offering her spoon to his waiting lips. "It's so yummy."

He takes the soup willingly in his mouth. Not even cautioning his tongue the blitz of heat from the broth.

"My mother's is better." He laps up the noodles in his mouth.

"My mother could make a mean bowl of cereal." Olivia joked.

"So am I going to have to look forward to burned disasters in the near future?" He cleared his throat watching her sneak a sip of his root beer.

"Eat your food Fitz and maybe I won't chop your dick off."

Fitz gleamed bright red as he tried not to choke on the food lodged in his mouth. Olivia batted her eyelashes as if she hadn't threatened him with fatal bodily harm. Her face blush pink with amusement. She plopped another spoonful of noodles in her mouth. A grin curving around her lips.

"I should put you over my knee, for that." He leans towards her. Kissing her lightly.

"I'm starting to think you have a fetish, mister. I'm not impressed. I refuse to put on a diaper, stuff a pacifier in my mouth and call you Daddy."

"Livvie!" Fitz nearly yelled. He was blushing this time wiping his mouth with a napkin. She gave him a quick wicked smile. She ignores his look of mocking disapproval. Instead she finishes her soup rather quickly washing it down with the vanilla coke. Fitz eats as if he has all the time allotted to him. Shoulder to shoulder her body leans against his, eyes shut in untainted pure contentment. And gingerly the bumping beats of their hearts rose to a breeze that synced in perfect pace simultaneously. She was used to breathing on her own, hurrying out rushed breaths, but cuddled underneath the strength of Fitz. She breathes in sync.


End file.
